


Passion (The Little Flowers of Marcus Keane)

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marcus Keane/Deven Bennett Referenced, Marcus Keane/Peter Osborne Referenced, Men Crying, Missing Scene, OR IS IT, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stigmata, This is actually a serious story, Tomas is mostly absent, Unrequited Love, believe it or not, marcus-centric, should read Marcus crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: When Marcus first became a part of the Church, his life got better before it got worse. By the time he was twenty, he knew three things: 1) no one had ever explicitly said it was okay to want to kiss boys; 2) he was a fucking priest anyway, and these things weren’t allowed him, ever; and 3) no one had ever told him self-harm was wrong.Tomas was something different altogether. Tomas was going to kill him.Also features: Marcus running away from his problems and his guardian angel doing face-palms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clockheartedcrocodile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/gifts).



> This is for the lovely ClockheartedCrocodile, whose prompts and fic ideas mobbed me in a back alley and here we are 5000 words later. I have loved writing this; thank you again for letting me borrow it.  
> For those of you not familiar, stigmata is "the appearance of marks or actual wounds paralleling those Christ received during Crucifixion." It comes in many forms including on the hands, feet, head, and back, and often has a supposedly pleasant, flower-like smell associated with it called the Odour of Sanctity. Both have a very informative Wikipedia page if you'd like to know more.  
> The quote "May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble" is Psalms 20:1  
> “Maggie” is, of course, short for Mary Magdalene.  
> The priest from New York was a real priest. His name was Fr. Mychal Judge. He was a gay Catholic priest, chaplain of the New York fire department, and the first casualty of the 9/11 attack.  
> Deacon Bob is also a real person, though not famous. He is kind, funny, and I am ever grateful for his openness and love.  
> This fic is rated M for mature themes.

> _"he began to contemplate the Passion of Christ… and his fervor grew so strong within him that he became wholly transformed into Jesus through love and compassion…_  
>  _After a long period of secret converse, this mysterious vision faded, leaving… in his body a wonderful image and imprint of the Passion of Christ. For in the hands and feet of Saint Francis forthwith began to appear the marks of the nails in the same manner as he had seen them in the body of Jesus crucified."_  
>  _Little Flowers of St. Francis of Assisi_

            When Marcus first became a part of the Church, his life got better before it got worse. He started eating three square meals a day. The priests tried to scare the shit out of them, but were worse at it than Dear Old Dad had been. He met Bennet who, for all his whining, _always_ had Marcus’ back – it was a first for him. When they were finally introduced to the demons and allowed to start attempting exorcisms, Marcus excelled at it and his life got instantly better again. He was their little demon killer, and he was _good_ at it. Better than some of the priests, honestly. Marcus grew up, and life was – well, maybe not _good_ , but better than anything Dear Old Dad had been offering, and hey; for the first time in his life he was useful and good and God was on his side. Beggars can’t be choosers.

            Eventually it started to catch up with him. The hours, the travel, the demons themselves. He got _too_ good, and they started to try and crawl into _his_ mind with every exorcism. They learned his weaknesses, waved them in front of him like parade flags, taunting him with his own personal, metaphorical demons. The violence, the alcoholism, the temper. Marcus’ inability to know when to stop.

            Knowing when to stop was always Bennet’s job. They worked together for a couple years, the top two “students” in their twisted little “class.” It worked well for them; Bennet was his rock. When the going got tough and the demons started leaving nasty little nightmares in his head – or maybe his own brain did that for him – Bennet would roll over, remind him where they were, and tell him to go back to sleep. Bennet’s quiet, steady breathing was a metronome, and Marcus made the mistake of setting his heart to it.

            He wasn’t stupid. Sheltered, sure. Ignorant, occasionally, loathe as he was to admit it. But Marcus knew two things: 1) no one had ever explicitly said it was okay to want to kiss boys, and 2) he was a fucking _priest_ anyway, and these things weren’t allowed him, ever. He was God’s hand, the Church’s weapon. Lusting after his fucking best friend was not what people like him did.

But it ate at him. Every bed they shared to save the Church money, every time Bennet’s head fell on Marcus’ shoulder on those too-tiny economy-class airplane seats, every household Bennet effortlessly talked his way into, every airport they slept in huddled together for warmth, every little gesture offered innocently by Bennet because he didn’t know better than to make those invitations-that-weren’t-invitations. Marcus cursed his sinful self, cursed his flesh, _hated_ himself in a way even Dear Old Dad hadn’t made him. He prayed with his knees on cracked and stained ceramic tiles in the bathroom of seedy hotels for God to _please, please take this cross off my back_ , every time the greasy kid at the desk winked or sneered or made _that_ gesture with his mouth when Bennet and Marcus checked in. At least when they stayed at monasteries and convents – as much as Marcus hated having his cigarettes taken away and being forced into tedious and long prayer services – at least there, no one made such assumptions.

            Marcus’ hate ran deep, but he didn’t realize how deep until Bennet made a comment about his work not being what it should. How the demons seemed to be getting at him.

            “You’re not going soft on me, are you?” Bennet asked, half joking, but Marcus’ knew his answer would be studiously remembered and analyzed and probably reported to their superiors. Bennet was always more faithful to the Church than Marcus was, and as much as Bennet let him get away with, there were things even he could not overlook.

            “Naw, ‘course not. Just givin’ you a chance to show off,” Marcus blustered, cocky smile plastered to his face, heart racing a million miles a minute, surreptitiously watching Bennet out of the corner of his eye to see if he bought it.

            Bennet hummed, not charmed. But, maybe. “We both know you’re better at this than me,” he said, and Marcus’ blood ran cold with it. Getting Bennet to admit that was like pulling teeth; for it to be freely offered – Marcus felt the plate in his hand fall between his fingers. The sound of it shattering on the floor was shocking and painful.

            Marcus looked up at Bennet, chin tucked and eyebrows pinched. He offered a feeble smile to Bennet’s shocked expression.

            “You can’t just say shit like that to me, mate. You’re thowin’ me off.”

            Bennet snorted and shook his head. They both crouched down to clean up the fragments of the plate before any of the nuns they were staying with noticed.

            “Really, Marcus,” Bennet said when they were done. “We need you. Don’t stop now.” Bennet put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder, one of those little invitations that weren’t. He rubbed his thumb over Marcus’ shoulder blade, and Marcus tried and failed to keep breathing. Bennet attempted a last reassuring smile, picked up his hand, and left. Marcus followed to the door, closed and locked it, and fell to his knees in desperate supplication, _please, God, save me from myself…_

            What it boiled down to, as the Americans said, was the simple fact that no one had ever told Marcus self-harm was bad. It started that very night, when Bennet critiqued his work. It was then Marcus knew something needed to give.

            “Sometimes,” Father Patrick used to say, spittle flying out his mouth, “God expects you to just get that shite done.”

            Marcus buried the plate fragments at the bottom of the garbage and stole a knife and disappeared into his room. There wasn’t a lock, of course – it was a convent after all – so he quietly slid the wardrobe over to block the door. He didn’t expect anyone to walk in on him, but a lifetime of no privacy and unwanted visitors in the middle of the night taught him to make no assumptions.

            He found one of his dark, ratty shirts that he’d gotten from the rejects from a donation bin of a church in New York. If it suddenly became stained, no one would notice. He took of his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. Where wouldn’t it be noticed? He had a long, thin, white scar on his left shoulder already, from Dear Old Dad all those years ago. Marcus gambled if there suddenly were two or three more, no one would notice.

            Over the years, that shirt became less and less wearable, to the point where Marcus buried it as deep in his bag as he could and prayed no one found it. He kept the knife and drew diamonds on his shoulder in crazy hatch patterns. But it eased that thing inside of him, made the sin of him easier to ignore. Like releasing built-up pressure, Marcus felt almost back to normal in a way he hadn’t since he looked at Bennet one night when they were teenagers and thought, _I really want you to kiss me._ Bennet never said anything about it again, and Marcus considered that a success.

            Around the turn of the century, he met a priest in New York who talked about being gay like it was normal. Marcus watched with terror and fascination as he’d visit men dying of AIDS in his street clothes, and they’d laugh about how cute the doctor was, with his slightly greying beard. The man was no idiot, and seemed to know Marcus better than Marcus knew himself when he asked Marcus how long he’d known he liked men.

            “It’s no sin,” the man promised, in words that seemed as powerful as the holy ones Marcus used to banished demons. “We’re married to Jesus Christ, after all. That’s pretty gay, if you ask me.”

            He went with Marcus to get his second tattoo. Properly, at a parlor in Brooklyn where no one would ask questions and everyone seemed just a little bit queer. _What a wonderful place_ , Marcus marveled as men leaned on other men like it didn’t matter and the only words anyone had about Marcus’ tattoo was how nice of a design it was. The artist inked over the scars in neat, hatch diamonds and darker crosses, and by the time he was done, it was like they never existed. A couple people hugged him as he left, whispered words of hope and love and new beginnings in his ears. A year later, the man died when the Twin Towers fell, and Marcus felt like he was mourning the father he never had.

            He did okay, though, for a couple years. For more than a decade, actually. Time seemed to fly. Bennet went on to bigger and better things and left Marcus far behind in the trenches, a – how did the song go? – _a loaded God complex, just cock it and pull it_. It was for the best; the less Marcus saw Bennet, the easier it was to live with himself, and the more he could focus on his work. It was easy to ignore what was wrong with himself when he was dead tired all the time.

He thought about picking it up again, after he lost Gabriel and was banished to St. Thomas’. It would have been so easy, to let that fucking pressure out, let off some steam – wasn’t that what Americans said? Instead, Marcus resisted. He stood for hours in front of the mirror in the bathroom, staring at the cross-work crosses on his shoulder, reciting prayers, repeating what the man from New York had told him, waiting for God to start bloody talking again.

            Tomas was something different altogether. Tomas was going to kill him. With his _hair_ and his _face_ and his bloody _puppy dog eyes_. Marcus had always imagined death one of two ways: as a grey old man alone in a room, or, the more likely option, killed fighting a particularly nasty demon somewhere. Now he realized God had other plans for his demise, and it’s name was Father Tomas _fucking_ Ortega.

            He behaved himself for the first week. Actually, that was a lie. He started off wrong, and he never got right. He started off pushing Tomas into a wall, uncertain if he wanted to plant his fist or his mouth on those fucking lips and scruffy stubble. He stalked – yes, he stalked, fucking weirdo he was – for days before _breaking in to Tomas’ house_. And going through his mail. And pretending it was normal. And it only got worse from there. Marcus was many things, but he was not an idiot – well, he wasn’t _that_ kind of an idiot – and he had reasons, at least half-decent excuses, for what he did. But he was also Catholic, and the ends never justified such ridiculous means, and the guilt weighed heavy on his shoulders at night.

            In his defense, Tomas didn’t exactly shy away from it. If anything, he started playing bloody along. With the collar and the drink; sometimes Marcus felt like he could pretend it was normal and okay. And then, when it was all over, and Marcus was still at least two pints down on blood and just hoping to get out of Chicago alive, Tomas asked him to stay. Like it actually _was_ okay – whatever the hell _it_ was.

            Marcus said yes. He had no choice; it didn’t even feel like Marcus talking. It felt like God talking. It felt like the baptism in the lake, it felt like that first whole elephant. It felt important and powerful and Marcus couldn’t, couldn’t _ever_ , back away from it now. But his skin itched with that pressure-cooker feeling every time Tomas smiled at him sleepily or rolled his eyes in mock annoyance or talked in his sleep (in Spanish, of course. It sounded _beautiful_ ).

So Marcus started doing it again, shortly after they got on the road. Everyone knew staying wasn’t really possible, and once Marcus talked Bennet into letting him take Tomas on, the priest told them to travel, anywhere, everywhere. For the first time in a decade or more, Marcus wasn’t doing this by himself. It was _wonderful_ , and it was just as bad as it had been with Bennet. So Marcus bought a cheap knife at a dollar store (they lied; it was $3.50) and found a new shirt to ruin, and started over. It helped, a little. Not really. Not as much as before. But it was the only solution Marcus had, so he clung to it.

            New scars raised red and ugly over the black lines, a few at a time, and for all his questions about why and how and where and what, Tomas never asked him about that. About the tattoo or the scars or the fresh red welts, and Marcus would forever be grateful beyond words, to Tomas and to God, for that tiny reprieve. At least he could like his bitter wounds in peace.

            It slowly started to seem sustainable. Eventually, the cutting started to help him feel better about himself, and Tomas kept him focused, kept him on his toes. Eventually Marcus grew used to the longing, longing for Tomas in a way he never had for Bennet, but he learned to live with it. He would rather have Tomas in his life in some small way than not at all. They settled into a rhythm, and Tomas learned quickly, and was truly _fantastic_ – which only made Marcus fall in love with him more – and they did a lot of good work.

            And then there was Washington, and Marcus learned abruptly and all at once that none of this was sustainable at all when he suddenly found himself pulling the goddamn trigger. “Compromised” was a word with more than one meaning. Compromised meant Peter – who was beautiful and wonderful and gentle and reminded Marcus of that priest in New York, and who started it so at least Marcus could feel less guilty about that. And for a heartbeat, no more than an hour, Marcus thought maybe that was sustainable, and the priest in New York had been right, it wasn’t a sin after all – and then he was pulling the trigger to kill a man – not a demon, a _man_ – and that was the other meaning of the word compromised, and it had Tomas’ face and Marcus’ worst fears plastered all over it.

            The third meaning of compromised had “murderer” written on it in blood-red letters every time Marcus closed his eyes, and that was the one he sold Tomas. He justified it with a side-helping of “God doesn’t talk to me anymore” and a healthy dose of “you don’t need me,” and hoped that was enough for Tomas. Part of him screamed it wouldn’t be, and insisted Tomas would be hurt and would miss him, and Marcus chalked it up to his own desires and vanities and walked away and didn’t look back. Not physically, anyway.

            Time passed. Almost without noticing, he made his way south, to southern California. He spent time on the street, time in a shelter, time in a rotting apartment with a drug addict and rats as roommates. Being an exorcist and fluent in Latin wasn’t on anyone’s “employable skills” list, but eventually he found a job as a translator for social services – or rather, the job found him. He was all but adopted by his boss, Maggie, a kind woman with dreadlocks down to her hips. She was willing to overlook certain incongruencies in his immigration statues and didn’t as for a work permit and wouldn’t take his shit. His Spanish was passable and Aramaic was close enough to Arabic he could pick it up without too much trouble. Between the job and his boss, he found himself usually fed; between his roommate, constantly tempted.

            Marcus started going to Mass again. He was technically still excommunicated, but he doubted God would mind. At least, when he walked in that first Sunday – at 7am because it was always the emptiest Mass – the heavens didn’t open up and strike him with lightening, so he took that as a good sign. Around the world, every Catholic Mass was essentially the same, and Marcus found himself reveling in the ritual and repetition. It was like a cool balm on his aching soul, and during distribution Marcus stood weeping silently in the back pew. It had been years since he’d last attended a Mass; he felt long overdue.

            All the pain was still there; the guilt, the three-headed compromise, the ringing silence, everything. But at Mass, Marcus could weep, and let it go, and know God was listening even if He wasn’t talking. And that silence grew from uncomfortable to comfortable to something almost approaching normal with every week Marcus went back.

            Life seemed to grow more normal, his job keeping him grounded in some strange way. Maggie thought he was getting better, but the hate in his head never stopped. It was a constant track, the self-hatred and abuse, like a tape he couldn’t turn off. Marcus realized he was punishing himself in small ways to make up for the loss of his previous outlet. He’d skip meals or stay up late praying on his knees. He was hard on himself, mentally and physically, and every day he begged God’s forgiveness for the things he thought where unforgivable. Marcus wasn’t expecting that forgiveness, not even from God, not after what he had done. He didn’t recognize it when he got it.

            Drowned in his guilt, Marcus didn’t notice when the holy water healed a paper cut, and the Mass cured a migraine. He gave away the extra food that came his way. He turned down the opportunity for better housing so someone more deserving could have it. If Marcus had a guardian angel, it was facepalming. God may have forgiven him, but Marcus hadn’t forgiven himself.

            It was a Friday. Maggie stuck her head in the office he shared with three other translators (all long gone) and said, “Get the hell outta my office and go home,” then, “What the hell’d you do to your back?”

            Marcus turned around with a frown. “What you talkin’ about, love?”

            “Your back!” Maggie repeated, gesturing emphatically at him and walking into the office. “Your shirt’s soaked through. You lean on somethin’?”

            “Not that I noticed.” Marcus let Maggie spin him around and pull at the back of his shirt, around the collar. “Your back’s fine; you hit your head or somethin’?”

            “What are you talking about?” Marcus repeated a bit more urgently as she started pulling at his hair.

            “Your hair’s all matted down in the back, like you were bleeding.” Marcus turned around abruptly, pulling his hair out of Maggie’s hands and reflexively patting down the back of his head. He’d let his hair grow out, all motivation for self-grooming gone, and he could feel something that felt suspiciously like blood clumped to the strands. Maggie was inspecting her fingers, stained red, in front of him. Marcus was no stranger to his own blood, but for the life of him, couldn’t imagine how he hurt himself.

            Maggie looked up at him under her eyelashes and crinkled her nose, a look she reserved for when she was suspected he was trying to prank her, and slowly raised her fingers to her nose and bloody _sniffed_ them. The look on her face was one of immediate relief and instant annoyance, and she swatted his shoulder with her red fingers.

            “This is not funny!” she snapped. “Fake spiders in Elanor’s desk might be, but not this!”

            “That still wasn’t me,” Marcus said reflexively – because it still wasn’t, and pulled his own hand away from his head. “What do you mean, it’s not funny?”

            “It’s not!” Maggie repeated indignantly. Marcus confusedly raised his own fingers to his nosed and sniffed. It…didn’t smell like blood. It was _sweet_ , like bloody _roses_ of all things. Marcus felt himself go cold.

            Maggie was smart enough to know what a joke was over. “You alright? You just went really pale.” She half walked, half pushed Marcus over and into his chair. “It’s not real, Marcus. Somebody pranked you.”

            Marcus bit back his reply and pulled his best fake smile at her, but Maggie was also smart enough to not fall for it. “I’m fine. I should probably get going.”

            Maggie wasn’t letting him get away that easily. “I’ll make sure everybody knows this is goin’ too far. I think we could all use a break from this prank war, anyway.”

            “No, Maggie, really,” Marcus attempted. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. Just tired.” ‘Fine’ might have been up for debate, but ‘tired’ was always at least partially true, and Marcus knew he could get away with half-truths. Maggie’s eyes narrowed in consideration, but eventually she nodded.

            “Get more sleep this weekend,” she told him, like every weekend. “Remember to take care of yourself, Marcus.” Marcus didn’t even attempt to answer. He left as quickly as possible and went to the only place he knew he could.

            The church was blessedly empty on a Friday afternoon. Marcus walked laboriously down the center aisle, like a bride to unwilling marriage. The life-size crucifix that dominated the front wall of the church stared down his walk of shame, a slow, painful passage back to a God Marcus hadn’t realize he’d forsaken. He felt a trail of rose-red blood drip down his skin in front of his left ear, and finally felt the wet trail against the back of his neck, warm and matted. His boots bumped against the uneven stones and he stumbled and fell to his knees, eyes frozen to the shining figure of Christ before him. As blood dripped into his eyes, he would have sworn the statue was bleeding too.

            A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and like that the moment was shattered into a million unfixable pieces. Without the hand holding him up, Marcus would have fallen on his face, weeping. One hand multiplied into two, and someone hauled him to his feet and walked him over to a bench. They let him collapse there among the empty pews and they walked away, left Marcus to wither in the light that lit Christ’s figure. A moment later they were back, sitting next to Marcus, pulling him upright again. Cool cloth touched his face, his head; he heard the sound of the liquid trickling and let the Living water wipe away His blood and tears.

            When he could open his eyes again, Marcus saw an old man sitting in front of him. In one hand he held the stark white cloth used for the Eucharist during Mass now stained bright red; in the other was the bowl of holy water that normally sat by the door. The man saw Marcus gap at him and chuckled.

            “I had to improvise. Fr. Adam’s not going to like you dripping blood all over his church floor, miracle or no.” The man dipped the red-stained cloth into the water and reached by Marcus’ ear to swipe more blood off. “How are you feeling?”

            Marcus took a deep, shuddering breath. “Better, thanks.”

            “Yeah. Sorry to interrupt your moment, but I was worried you were, you know-“

            “Dying?” Marcus asked wryly.

            “Yeah.” The man’s eyes crinkled in smile. His face was loose and lined, but they were laugh lines, happy lines. It was the face of a man who had seen much and bore it with joy. “I’m glad you weren’t.”

            “No more than usual, anyway,” Marcus quipped without thinking, but the man took it without flinching. He reached around Marcus’ head to wipe the back of his neck, and the cloth felt deliciously cool. “What’s your Fr. Adam going to say when you turn that cloth pure red?”

            The man chuckled again and winked. “Maybe you could help me out with that one, since you’ve got God’s ear and all.” He dipped the cloth back in the bowl and rung it out. Marcus followed the water droplets with his eyes; the bowl remained free from the rosy tint of blood, the water as clear as it had been when Marcus walked in. If the other man noticed, he didn’t remark on it and simply kept cleaning Marcus up. It was the kind of thing Marcus and Tomas used to do for each other, all those months ago, that painfully intimate thing that drove Marcus to search for an entirely different kind of blood.

            “I don’t have God’s ear,” Marcus said eventually, locking his eyes onto the stone floor. He felt the man’s hand leave his neck, and the bench creaked as he sat straighter. Marcus didn’t look up.

            “You’re bleeding again,” the man said, calmly, matter-of-factly. Still, Marcus did not look up, but instead felt a single glistening drop of red blood slide down his face, his nose, linger there for a moment as Marcus drove himself cross-eyed trying to see it, then break away and fall to the church stones, where it splattered next to his shoe. The man reached out and brushed the next few off Marcus’ nose with the cloth, simultaneously pushing his face up so their eyes met. His eyes were pure grey, flecked like TV snow. His face was stone, painfully serious, and Marcus’ breath caught in his chest.

            “I don’t know what you did that you think is so terrible, but please, listen while I say two things. One, God is always listening. He never abandons you, no matter what you do. There are no qualifications or limits to how much He loves us, his children. Nothing you do can change that. And two, God isn’t just listening; He’s talking to you. You and I both know what this is.” The man’s grey eyes stared into Marcus’ soul. “He’s screaming at you.” The sentence drifted between them, clogging the air. The man let it sit there a moment, then cracked a sudden smile, his face suddenly coming alive through it. _“Knock, knock, knockin’ on yoo-our do-oo-oor,”_ he sang with laughter, and Marcus couldn’t help laugh back, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyebrow without thought as the blood tickled his skin. It felt good to laugh, like shaking dust off his lungs and bricks off his chest. Marcus let himself laugh and laugh and laugh and for the first time in months, his heart knew joy.

            “What’s your name?” he finally asked the man who sat smiling next to him.

            “Deacon Bob.” The man set the cloth on the pew between them and held out a hand. Marcus shook it, Deacon Bob’s grasp warm and firm and welcoming.

            “Really?” he asked, still giggling. Deacon Bob’s smile seemed to grow impossibly wider.

            “God given!” he laughed back, and there was only one person in the world Marcus would rather share his joy with in that moment. After another bout of giggles, the Deacon sobered, but only slightly. “I see you come in here every Sunday at the crack of dawn, but you never take communion. Why is that?”

            Marcus took a deep breath, eyes instinctively finding the crucified Christ again. “I’m excommunicated.”

            “Bull _shit_ ,” Deacon Bob objected with feeling. Marcus nodded, not meeting his eyes. Bob hummed. “Well. God didn’t get the memo.” Marcus dissolved into giggles again, as if on cue. “May I ask what they excommunicated you for? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

            Marcus shrugged. “I disagreed with them.” It wasn’t untrue and seemed the simplest answer. Next to him, he felt more then saw Deacon Bob nod.

            “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He sounded genuinely repentant, and Marcus stole a quick glance at him. His face was serious again, the laugh lines twisted into something more sorrowful. “I’d tell you not to take it to heart, but I think God’s already said it.” Marcus snorted at the joke, but a shroud settled over their humor. Marcus thought back to Chicago, when Bennett told him what they’d done.

            “I used to be a priest. Only thing I’d ever done; only thing I thought I’d ever be good at.” Marcus found himself suddenly talking, words dribbling out of his mouth like the tears from his eyes and the blood from Christ’s wounds on his skull. “I didn’t take it seriously; I knew God was still with me. And then He suddenly wasn’t. And I-“ Marcus sobbed once, bracing himself on the backs of the pews. Deacon Bob put one large, warm hand on his arm, but didn’t stop him. “I fell in love. But he wasn’t mine to love; he was God’s. And I killed someone-“ Marcus sobbed harder, barely able to get the words out. Blood and tears and snot comingled on his face, a sticky, gritty mess, like sin pouring out of his soul. “I killed someone to protect him. And I don’t – I don’t-“ Marcus felt like he couldn’t breathe, gasping for air between sobs and words. “I don’t know how to li-i-ive with myself anymore.” Marcus deteriorated completely, his grief taking over. Deacon Bob reached over and pulled him into a hug, warm and enveloping just like his handshake, and he let Marcus cry, great sobs that wracked his body and stole his breath. Through teary eyes, Marcus could still see the glimmering light of Christ before him, and all he could think was, _may the Lord answer you, in your day of trouble._

            Marcus wept, and Deacon Bob held him. And when Marcus had cried all the tears he had, for Andy, for Mouse, for Gabriel, for Tomas, for himself, Deacon Bob took him to the sacristy. He washed his face and together he and Deacon Bob took communion, and he wept again, but this time tears of joy. He left the church with a lighter heart than he had known for years.

            The sun was just starting to set, the air cool, and he went for a walk down by the docks. He liked it there; it felt like balancing on the edge of a knife, caught between civilization and the edge of the world, hidden just beyond the point where the sky met the ocean. He liked watching the people, the tourists and the fishermen, the seagulls that stole their food and catch. He walked out along one pier, towards that impossible horizon. The sky was painted in the gentle pastels of a soft and quiet sunset. He stared off the edge of the world and suddenly everything went quiet. The noise of the people, the ships, the birds, the wind; nothing. It was all gone.

            Marcus did not feel fear. He felt strung tight, like a violin string, but calm. He could feel a sharp, cold wind on his cheeks that made his eyes tear, cold as a winter in north England. Peaceful, he raised his eyes to the sky, and he heard Him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for Easter!  
> Thank you to everyone who left comments or kudos; you really helped make this part 2 happen. I hope you enjoy it!  
> God's words to Marcus are a remix of the "I Thirst" meditation by St. Theresa, the most beautiful meditation I have ever read on Divine Love and Intimacy. I highly recommend it.  
> The St. Joan of Arc Chapel is a real place in Milwaukee on Marquette University's campus. It was built in 15th century France, and moved, stone by stone, to the United States in the 20th century. While the Joan of Arc stone does reside there and is colder then the rocks around it, I made up the myth about it giving strength.  
> Why, you might ask, did Tomas and Mouse end up in Milwaukee? I really couldn't say; you'd have to ask Marcus. He just really wanted to visit St. Joan of Arc's chapel.  
> The formatting for certain parts of this was a pain, so forgive me if it does not look as it should.  
> Happy Easter, everyone! He is Risen, indeed!

 

> _“Where you coerce and compel, we use compassion, forgiveness, and patience.”_
> 
> _“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing but rejoices at truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.” 1 Cor 13: 1-10_

 

            _Marcus walked to the docks and out onto a pier. The sun was starting to set, the sky bathed in pale oranges, yellows, the darkness of the night slowly creeping down towards the horizon. The land was awash in the last soft sunlight of the day. Tourists and locals began to gather at bars and restaurants, the fishermen finished with the last of their catch. Marcus stared off the edge of the world and suddenly everything went quiet. The noise of the people, the ships, the birds, the wind; nothing. It was all gone._

_Marcus did not feel fear. He felt strung tight, like a violin string, but calm. He could feel a sharp, cold wind on his cheek that made his eyes tear, cold as a winter in north England. Peaceful, he raised his eyes to the sky._

_It was like a whisper on the wind. It was like a thought in his own mind, buried deep in his soul. It came from inside Marcus and outside him at the same time. It surrounded him, and not in sound but in silence Marcus knew the Word of the Lord._

            It is true, _the Voice breathed, even as Marcus struggled for breath._

            I stand at the door of your heart, day and night.

            Even when you are not listening,

            even when you doubt it could be Me, I am there.

            I come, without fail.

            Silent and invisible I come,

            with a power and a love most infinite.

            I come with My mercy,

            with My desire to forgive and heal you,

            with a love for you that goes beyond your comprehension.

            Flee from Me no more;

            come into My Light,

            know Me once again

            and know My Will.

 

_Marcus’ breath shuddered in his lungs. He’s forgotten what it was like. “I can hear You,” he whispered, for God’s ears alone. “I’m listening.”_

_There was a sound, deafening in the silence, like the rumble of thunder. In his mind’s eye, as real as if it were right in front of him, Marcus saw Tomas, leaning over a bed, his hand pressed to the cheek of the possessed, his face lined in intense concentration, his teeth bared in fury. Marcus knew the look well._

_But he could see so much more through God’s eyes. He saw a dark cloud envelope the possessed, like ash. It crusted their skin, caged their soul, ate away at the person until they were corroded and rotting, more than diseased flesh but a diseased soul, ruined and lost, and Marcus felt God’s pain at the loss of His child, wept with a sadness too vast for his body and soul to contain._

_The cloud began to move. It flaked off the possessed, floated through the air to attach itself to Tomas. It burrowed under his skin like insects, flew into his open mouth, up his nose, coated his eyes so Marcus couldn’t see them anymore. It created nests in his hair, sores on his arms; it clogged his lungs and Marcus watched as it started attacking his soul, like a fist squeezing around an open heart._

_“Tomas,” he gasped, voice shattered in pain and terror. A voice in his head, whose voice, Marcus knew not, said,_ “Milwaukee, Wisconsin,” _and Marcus knew he had to go._

 _And then it was gone. All at once, the vision evaporated. The noise of the dock came back loud and roaring after the silence, jarring and out of place. Marcus felt exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that came after an exorcism, but also felt keyed-up, full of fear and worry for Tomas and a desire to do something_ right now _to save him. Marcus rubbed his hands over his face and found it lined with streaks of dried blood once again. He looked around, slightly panicked, worried someone had seen, but the sun had gone down and the pier was getting dark, the air getting chilly. Very few people remained out on the dock and they all gave Marcus a wide berth._

_He needed to leave first thing in the morning. He needed to go get ready. Marcus was good at picking up his whole life and relocating at the drop of a hat. Tomas needed him; Marcus didn’t understand why or how or what possessed God to choose him, but Tomas was in trouble, and Marcus knew God was telling him to be there. Marcus decided then and there to do whatever it took to save Tomas._

 

 

            Marcus left California as quickly as he could. Maggie tried to stop him from going, worried he was relapsing, and Marcus didn’t know how to prove to her he wasn’t, wasn’t sure himself that she was wrong, but he left anyway. He would do whatever God wanted him to, for as long as God wanted him to, for as long as he could.

            He took a bus to Denver, then another to Chicago; it took two agonizing days to get that far. Being back in that city was surreal, the memories of everything that had happened, how he and Tomas first met and the messy, brutal exorcism – the first of many for them, because the demons never could let off easy when Tomas was involved.

            The commuter train to Milwaukee was crowded to the point of standing room only during the evening rush hour, and Marcus tucked himself under the overhead baggage storage and stared out the window at the grass and trees just starting to turn green again with Spring. By the time he got off the train, his back and shoulders were killing him.

            He had no plan on how to find Tomas. He didn’t know what cell numbers he and Mouse were using anymore, he had no idea where in the city they would be; if they were in someone’s house working an exorcism it would be nigh impossible to find them. To his left he saw the highway, and to his right, he knew, was Lake Michigan. He started right.

            He was on a street called St. Paul Street, which seemed ironic in some way. He walked until he came across a river. The water was dark, with pollution and mud, undoubtedly, but at the sight of it something happened. Marcus saw, not the river, but a small chapel, old brick with a round window above the door and a stone cross on the roof. He saw the inside, a brief flash of a dark and cramped room with rickety wooden pews. The room was packed with people, all of them young, college-aged, staring at the altar. Marcus saw tulips, red and yellow in a garden. And then he saw the river again.

            _This must be what Tomas feels like_ , he realized, reeling slightly from the vision. It was incredibly disorienting. He knew that place, Marcus was sure of it; but he couldn’t place it. It felt so familiar, like a dream drifting at the corners of reality, but he did not know why. He had never had cause to visit Milwaukee before – one of the Marquette Jesuits took care of exorcisms needed in the city. How could he know it? Marcus kept walking.

            On the street corner opposite the river, Marcus found a large building labelled ‘Milwaukee Public Market.” Posters had been plastered on the windows of the building advertising food booths inside, and Marcus, who had not eaten since the morning, walked toward it. On the door into the building, he saw a flyer, advertising a talk given by a Marquette University professor on the nature of saints, to be held in the St. Joan of Arc chapel. The picture on the flyer was a small stone chapel with red and yellow tulips out front.

            “Of course,” Marcus muttered. He’d read about it in a book, all those years ago. Marcus abandoned the idea of food, flagged down a taxi, and spent his last dollars getting to the chapel in Milwaukee rush hour traffic.

            The Marquette campus was busy. It felt like classes had just let out, students with backpacks everywhere, Jesuits with cassocks and collars making Marcus wistful in a way he had been able to ignore for the past year. He felt a trail of either sweat or blood run down the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders in case it was blood.

            The chapel was easy enough to find, a small thing just off the main road. The tulips in front where not yet in bloom, spring only just starting, and the garden still looked a little brown and miserable. Marcus turned away from it and ducked into the chapel. It was empty. A single, narrow room was the entirety of it, stretching back toward an altar, behind which rested the Joan of Arc stone. Supposedly, Marcus had read, touching it and praying to St. Joan for strength before a battle would make a person invincible.

            “Didn’t do you much good, though; did it, love,” Marcus muttered to the empty church. Nonetheless, he felt drawn to the back wall of the chapel. St. Joan’s stone was said to be colder than all those around it, but Marcus didn’t test it. He set his hand on the flat, smooth rock, that was indeed chilled to his touch, and prayed, _whatever battles God calls me to fight, please help me win them._ _The trust you put in Him, show me how to hold it too._ For a moment, the silence was absolute.

            “Marcus?” a woman’s voice asked. Marcus opened his eyes and turned back to the doors. Mouse was standing there, wide-eyed but fierce. “What the hell are you doing here?”

            “Looking for your,” he answered, pulling his hand off the stone. “Where’s Tomas?”

            “How did you find us?” Mouse pressed, ignoring his question. She let the door fall closed behind her so they could have privacy.

            “It’s a long story. Short version is God told me.”

            “Right,” Mouse said flatly, clearly not convinced that was the end of it.

            “Tomas is in danger,” Marcus said, just to test her reaction. She had learned how to hold a good poker face, but her eyes got just a bit wider, and Marcus knew his vision had been correct. “I have to help him.”

            “I thought you quit,” Mouse snapped. She had him there.

            “I’m back.”

            “Do better.”

            “God _told me_ to come here. He _told me_ to help Tomas. I have to do this, Mouse. Now where is he?” Marcus didn’t have better.

            Mouse stared at him and Marcus could see the warring emotions in her eyes. Trust, disbelief, old grudges still born. One word was all it took. “Fine,” she hissed, and turned on her heel.

            Mouse had holed them up in a cheap hotel room a few blocks from campus. Marcus didn’t ask what she had been doing in the chapel and Mouse didn’t volunteer the information. Tomas looked much like he did in Washington. He lay prone on the bed, eyes open but glazed over with a white fog. He wasn’t muttering this time, his mouth open and wordless. Marcus felt a new kind of energy in the room, like a buzzing under his skin, and when he stopped moving long enough to stare, he could see the ash of the demon like in his vision. It was pale, like a shadow, almost not there, but Marcus knew it was. He knew in the eyes of God Tomas was being consumed, and he had to stop it.

            “What have you tried?” he asked.

            “All of it.” Mouse said. “Nothing’s working. I don’t think he can tell the difference between reality and fantasy right now. They must want him bad.”

            “He’s their worst nightmare,” Marcus reasoned, stripping off his coat and opening his case.

            “That used to be you, you know,” Mouse said, out of the blue. Marcus looked up at her, eyes wide. “You used to be their worst nightmare.”

            “We’re gonna get him out, Mouse.” She didn’t look convinced, but Marcus didn’t have anything else to say. He pulled out his Bible and went to work.

 

 

_The Reverend Mother was unrelenting. Since Mouse, Marcus avoided working with others, the fear of loosing a partner too powerful for him to face. He’d used to think himself invincible; twice, the Devil ripped that away. Once with Mouse, once with Gabriel. By the time he found himself on the Reverend Mother’s doorstep, he was bitter, angry, gnawing at the bit, and too afraid to see it through._

_He was defrocked, striped of his collar, his place, his life. What had he had, but God and his work? And now the Church thought to take it away from him. He thought they had succeeded._

_“Is it the collar and the wimple that give us our power?” the Reverend Mother challenged. She was good at that, and before he knew it, Marcus was back in the chapel watching nuns light candles. The Reverend Mother had dragged him into this, and Marcus’ shaky, quivering soul was too proud to admit he didn’t think he could do it and too stubborn to go down without a fight._

_He stared down the demon and recited the Liturgy of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of Divine Grace, the Mother of the Church, the Mother of God. As with all indignant sons, the demon wasn’t cooperating. When it threw Marcus across the room, it felt like something in Marcus snapped; he had already been tense enough before, he wouldn’t have been surprised. The nuns’ method wasn’t working, so he went straight for the demon, seized it by the throat and he would drive it out with whatever force necessary._

_He felt more then saw the Reverent Mother step forward. There, in the heart of her convent, she approached him with all the power, sternness, and compassion of a mother, and Marcus knew, from the look in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the lines on her face, knew in a way he would never be able to explain after, that he had to do it their way. With patience, forgiveness, and compassion._

_He stared into the eyes of the demon, held its head in his hands, and whispered words of forgiveness, of love, of acceptance, of healing. Words he had never heard, never said, never thought had a place in his life._

_“-profane thing, ashes on the earth-“_

_He sunk to his knees, no longer able to stand._

_“-you are forgiven-“_

_He hugged its head to his chest. It clawed at his arm._

_“-Outcast. Fallen angel-“_

_He wrapped his arm around it. He thought he might cry._

_“-You are loved-“_

_The body in his arms shook. He felt the Mother’s hand rest on his shoulder, firm, gentle strength._

_“-You are forgiven-“_

_“You are forgiven,” the nuns repeated, strength to back up his choked whispers. The Reverend Mother placed her other hand on the possessed’s back._

_“You are redeemed,” Marcus forced out._

_“You are redeemed,” they promised. The man in his arms spluttered._

“You are loved.”

_The room suddenly went very quiet. Marcus felt like he could hear the Reverend Mother’s very heartbeats. A gust of cool, clean air washed through the room and the candles flickered, the chandelier creaked and rocked above him. Marcus knew in his bones, with a certainty he had never known, the work was done. He laid the man gently down, listened as the snarls became terrified gasps for air. Marcus stayed kneeling as he watched the nuns take him away. He watched them come together, to protect, reassure, sooth, no pretenses or false bravado. The Reverend Mother gave him one last, knowing look, a small, pleased smile on her scarred face, before she, too, left him to himself._

_He stayed where he was, for as long as he thought he could, exhausted and stunned and awed by the power of God._

 

            It took them three days to get the demon out of Tomas. Three days wasn’t a long time by any means, but it felt like three years to Marcus and Mouse looked similarly tired. He was out of practice, Marcus was sure was part of it, but there was something different about that exorcism. It was an all-or-nothing fight. It felt like both he and the demon were prepared to go all-out, to do whatever it took, push any breaking point. Marcus had done a lot of really hard exorcisms before, exorcisms he thought he was never going to survive, but not even Gabriel’s three-week affair threatened to ruin him like this one did. And yet, through it all, he knew God was with him. When, into the night of day two, and Tomas had started coughing up blood, Mouse asked how he was so sure, Marcus couldn’t not explain. He knew he bled during it, knew Mouse had many, many questions, and while she hadn’t asked them, not during the exorcism, Marcus knew explanation time had come due.

            Mouse had left to get provisions; they needed drinking water, food, bandages, anti-bacterial. She would be gone for at least half an hour. Tomas was sleeping. Even after they dispelled the demon, he had been disoriented, not fully aware of where he was or who he was with. Marcus didn’t think Tomas even realized he was there. Marcus had picked up his Bible and found the first blank page, some chapter in 1 Corinthians, and was sketching him, cuts and bedsores and all. An exorcism was an ugly, brutal thing, but Marcus felt the need to commemorate this particular one.

            “I thought you quit,” Tomas’ voice mumbled. Marcus looked up to see Tomas staring at him through a half-open eye, the other lid too swollen to let him open it.

            “I came back.” It was the only explanation Marcus could offer yet.

            “You were right.” Tomas kept talking, as if he didn’t hear Marcus at all. “I thought I’d learned how to control it, but I was wrong.” He stopped, trying to get his breath back, his breathing labored. “It would have killed me. The demon. If you didn’t get it out.”

            Impulsively, Marcus reached across the bed and took hold of Tomas’ hand. The demon had broken two fingers on its way out, and Marcus held it carefully. “I’ve always got you back, Tomas. Always.” Marcus held his hand until Tomas fell back asleep, and continued to hold it until Mouse got back. He helped her unpack the shopping bags and store the things that needed refrigeration. Then, as they cleaned and bandaged the damage the demon had done to Tomas, Marcus told her everything.

            That was a lie. Comparatively, Marcus told her next to nothing. He told her about the stigmata, about receiving God’s forgiveness for Andy’s death, about hearing God’s call on the dock and how he found her at the chapel. He did not tell her he was still in love with Tomas. There were some things she did not need to know, Marcus reasoned.

            Mouse was silent through it all. She was silent after Marcus was done talking, and the finished bandaging Tomas in a fragile peace. Only when they were done with that did Mouse speak.

            “I had a dream, just before this happened,” she waved a hand at Tomas, “about Bennett. I haven’t heard from him, though I left instructions on how to contact me. I’m worried about him. Our next stop was going to be to try and find him. I want to go and do that now.”

            “By yourself?” Marcus asked. He knew she preferred it that way, generally, but under the increasingly tenuous circumstances, it didn’t seem smart.

            “You’re going to be here a while,” Mouse pointed out. “It’s going to take weeks for him to get back on his feet. I don’t think Bennett has that long, if it’s not too late already.” Marcus had to concede that point. “I’ll be in touch if I find anything suspicious,” Mouse promised, “and I’m sure Bennett will be in touch regardless.” Marcus chuckled. He knew Bennett all too well.

            “When do you want to leave?”

            “As soon as possible.”

            Marcus nodded. “Be careful.”

            “I am,” Mouse promised. She collected her things and left them enough money to cover things for at least a couple weeks. She hugged Marcus before she left, whispered, “I am glad you’re back,” in his ear. Marcus was slowly starting to agree with her.

           

 

            _“It’s really over, isn’t it,” Tomas said in wonder. The bar was loud with the happy conversation of people out for a good time, the sound of the music filling gaps in conversation, glass bottles clinking. Nowhere else in the world did bars quite like America did, and Marcus found himself missing it. It was nice, to get out for a pint. Felt normal, for once. Just ‘hanging out.’_

_But he found himself answering Tomas’ not-question, because it all came back to the work. “Doesn’t have to be. You could make a go at this, you know. Being an exorcist.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying it. It was all true, but Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d wished his line of work on someone; probably never. “You’re not all rubbish.” He was a little tipsy, draped over the bar low and crooked, but Tomas seemed more amused than anything, so he let himself be loose for once._

_Tomas looked at him for a moment, but only a moment. “Well, I thought you said an exorcist has to give up…” he paused, like he was trying to remember, or trying to force the words out, “family, friends.” He tried off, and Marcus remembered and almost regretted his words. “Love,” Tomas finished._

_Marcus took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, you do.” He added some piss about seeing the world, but it was clear Tomas’s heart wasn’t in it. Marcus didn’t blame him. Being an exorcist hurt; he didn’t really want to force that on anyone. They said a toast and their goodbyes, and Tomas offered Marcus his hand and looked him in the eye and said “Next time, my friend,” like that was a real possibility._

_“A la proxima, hermano,” Marcus muttered to his beer and knew he was well and truly screwed._

 

 

            Marcus woke suddenly but not abruptly, asleep one moment, wide awake the next. On the other bed, Tomas was tossing and turning, muttering something Marcus couldn’t understand, but it was clear he was having a nightmare. Marcus pushed himself up and across the space between the beds, gently calling Tomas’ name.

            “Tomas. Tomas! Wake up! It’s alright, you’re with me. You’re safe. Wake up,” he muttered senseless nothings, gently holding on to Tomas’ arms so he wouldn’t hurt himself. It had been a few days since the exorcism, and he was better, but the broken bones alone would take weeks to heal; the other, invisible wounds that Marcus couldn’t treat would take much, much longer.

            Tomas woke with a start, gasping breath, eyes wild and trying to make sense of their shadowy, pre-dawn world. When he found Marcus’ face, he visibly relaxed, let Marcus run his hands up and down his arms reassuringly.

            “You’re alright, mate,” Marcus promised softly. “You’re alright.”

            Neither of them could go back to sleep after that, so Marcus stopped pretending, gave Tomas the TV remote, and cracked open his Bible again to pretend the stain on the wall across from his bed was really interesting, while shooting hidden glances at Tomas’ nightmare-stricken face, a look he was too tired to hide for once.

            The sun had just come up when Tomas finally asked the question Marcus had been waiting days for him to ask: “Why did you leave me?”

            Marcus doesn’t notice, at first, how the question is different than the one he had been rehearsing the answer to in his head. How the addition of one word, ‘me,’ should have changed everything. He didn’t notice, was too wrapped up in the pain of his confession, to realize the questions weren’t really the same at all.

            It did feel like confession to Marcus, this act of baring his soul to Tomas, so completely. He felt he owed the man that much, a genuine and complete response, unsoiled by lies or omittances, and so he was brutally honest.

            “I left because I couldn’t be an exorcist anymore.”

            “You came back. You saved me. You really expect me to believe you haven’t been doing this, all these months?” Tomas’ voice was weak, but even without strength his words carried an accusatory tone. It made Marcus’ resolve shatter; made him was to run back into the defense mechanisms he knew, pick a fight, change the subject. But this was his confession; so he forced himself to keep going, but Tomas beat him to it. “Did you leave because of me?”

            The question took Marcus by surprise. He knew Tomas was asking about something bigger, but he couldn’t fathom what. “I sinned,” he said, as if that would somehow answer the question. Tomas was silent, so Marcus kept going. “Against you and God.”

            “…Against me?” Tomas’ voice was timid. He seemed as confused as Marcus was. Marcus took a deep breath and confessed.

            “I fell in love with you.” The words tumbled out while he stared at the stain on the wall. It almost didn’t feel real. He knew Tomas was looking at him, but the two-foot gap between their beds was his confession screen; he need not ever see the priest to receive forgiveness. “I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t effect my work but it was, and I-“ this would always be the part, more than anything, that Marcus found intolerable to tell. “I had doubts about why I really killed Andy.” He was crying again, silent tears that ran fast down his cheeks. The stain seemed to grow in his eyes, so hyper-focused on it as he was. “I told you I was compromised, but it was as much because of how much I loved you as it was for anything else.”

            A cold hand touched his arm, forcing Marcus to rip his eyes away from the wall and look down. Tomas’ bandaged fingers gently wrapped around Marcus’ wrist, and when Marcus finally looked at Tomas, he was crying too.

            “You’re bleeding,” was the first thing he said, and Marcus laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

            “Yeah, I…yeah.”

            Tomas was always quick, and not afraid of miracles. “Is it…the stigmata?”

            Even the deacon in California hadn’t been moved so far as to use that particular word, but there was never any real doubt that it was. All Marcus could do was nod, not ready to admit to it out loud yet.

            “Did you punish yourself because of me?” Tomas asked, and there was something about it, something was off. Marcus hadn’t really expected anger, but whatever it was Tomas was thinking, Marcus didn’t know how to answer that. Tomas kept going. “Marcus, please, I-“ Tomas swallowed hard. His grip on Marcus’ wrist tightened. “I had no idea.”

            Marcus had to resist the urge to rip his hand out of Tomas’ grasp out of shame. He could feel it, filling his chest. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to…” _scare you off, ruin our friendship, admit how messed up I was_.

            “No, Marcus, I-“ Tomas seemed to swallow around his words, but Marcus really had no idea what he was trying so hard to say. “I thought you left because of me.” Tomas started again then laughed at himself. “Because of something I did.”

            _“No,”_ Marcus whispered strongly. How could he think such a thing? “No, Tomas, you never did anything; it was all my fault-“

            “I loved you,” Tomas finally spit out, and Marcus’ brain stopped in its tracks. “I do love you,” Tomas corrected with a frown. “I thought you left because you knew. I couldn’t believe you left me.”

            “Are you for real,” Marcus breathed, but it wasn’t a question because he already knew the answer. Tomas nodded silently and Marcus set his hand over Tomas’ wrist, careful not to jostle the broken ones. _“Tomas.”_ He breathed it as gentle as he did God’s name, a holy, wonderful thing. Tomas let out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh and suddenly Marcus was standing, moving, sitting on Tomas’ bed.

            “I can’t believe you left,” Tomas repeated, staring at some point on Marcus’ chest. “I was so angry. And then I felt so guilty; I thought I had done it. Forced you to leave.” Tomas let out another half-sob, half-laugh. “And we were both running from the same thing.” He finally looked up at Marcus, who had never let go of his hand. “Is it really a sin?” He looked at Marcus from under swollen eyelids and above split lips, sores from ropes peppering his arms with bumpy scabs, rashes from burning holy water reddening his skin in perfect circles.

            _It’s no sin_ , a priest in New York said.

            _God’s screaming at you_ , a deacon in California admonished.

            _Milwaukee_ , a Voice insisted.

            He cradled Tomas’ head in his hands, letting his fingers comb through hair, brush against stubble, cup ears – for the first time not wondering if it was too much. Tomas stared at him, eyes full of light and love, and Marcus couldn’t take it anymore. He let himself lean forward, let himself kiss him, just a gentle brush of his lips against Tomas’, respectful, chaste. He rested his forehead against Tomas’, felt Tomas’ breath on his face, his hair in his hands, Tomas’ hands on his waist, twisted in his shirt. He felt so much he would never be able to put it into words.

            “I missed you so much,” Tomas said.

            “I love you,” Marcus said.

            “I love you, too, Marcus.”


End file.
